


When the Ash Settles

by RosalindInPants



Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trembling, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 02:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21110873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosalindInPants/pseuds/RosalindInPants
Summary: In the hours after the battle to save the Library, an exhausted Wolfe and Santi finally find some time to reconnect and begin to process everything that's happened.





	When the Ash Settles

For the third time in as many days, Wolfe sat at Jess Brightwell’s bedside, watching the young man’s chest rise and fall. He looked better than he had the night before, at least. There was a hint of pink in his skin again, and though his breaths still looked far too shallow, they were at least smooth and even, uninterrupted by fits of coughing. Jess’s battle-stained clothes had been replaced with soft pajamas supplied by the Medicas, and Thomas had taken the time to wash his friend’s face and hands before leaving for the nearest laboratory to oversee the brewing of another batch of antidote. Only the soot and blood in his hair betrayed the violence he’d seen over the past days.

Wolfe knew he didn’t look nearly as good himself. His Scholar’s robe was torn and stained, the clothes beneath it in even worse shape. He’d washed his hands, but he did not even want to know the state of his face or his hair. It was coming loose from the tie that held it back, curls of black and gray falling into his eyes when he let his head fall too far forward.

It served as a good warning. A reminder to pick up his coffee and take another sip. No, another gulp. That would give him the energy to get up and get himself a fresh cup, he hoped. He would need it, if he was going to stay awake until one of the others came to take his place.

Dozing was not an option. He was tired enough that memories floated before his eyes each time they closed. Rome. Chains and blades and stone and fire. Pain. And mixed in with those old, familiar horrors, new ones. Poisonous green mist. Blood. Shattered buildings and broken bodies. Greek fire. Books burning. _ Morgan _ burning. Jess collapsing without breath and Glain bloodless on the operating table. The flash of a blade.

A splash of lukewarm coffee on his trembling hand shook him back to the present. He took another gulp, and was about to put the cup back down when the door opened, and a figure shadowed in black stepped quietly through, its face a blur in the room’s dim glows.

_ No. Not here. Not now. _

He froze. His heart raced. His hands closed so tightly around the coffee cup that he feared it might shatter. He closed his eyes, for all the good it would do.

There was a shuffle of footsteps. A brightening of the glows.

“Scholar Wolfe?”

He knew that voice. Dario Santiago. His student, his child, his assistant in shutting down Nobel’s horrifying machine. It echoed in his memory. _ “You don’t command me, Scholar.” _

The dagger flashed before his eyes. Dripping with blood. His scars burned.

He blinked it away, made himself look up. “Santiago. Come to relieve me, then?” His legs and back had gone stiff from sitting too long, but he ignored that pain and stood.

“How is he?” Dario asked, looking down at Jess’s sleeping form.

“No changes, but that would be a lot to ask at this stage. There’s been no crisis either, which is as much as we could have hoped.” It went without saying that Jess might yet succumb to the poison. The antidote might fail, if Thomas succeeded in brewing any more at all.

That thought made it seem like madness to leave the room. He might never see color in Jess’s cheeks again. Wolfe could picture the sight of Jess’s lifeless body all too easily, the mirror image of his twin’s. The sudden urge to reach out and touch the boy’s pale hand possessed him, and before he could stop himself, he’d done it, feeling the soft pulse of life beneath skin that seemed too thin.

“Don’t worry, sir. I’ll make sure they take good care of him,” Dario said, moving toward the chair Wolfe had just vacated. “God help me, I’ve come to love the scrubber as much as the rest of you. Maybe I’ll even have them do something about the state of his hair.”

Wolfe made himself lift his hand, tucking it into his sleeve before Dario could see the tremor in it. He was being a sentimental fool. He turned to Dario, a sharp comment ready on his tongue.

That was a mistake. He could see the telltale lump beneath Dario’s fine jacket. The hilt of the dagger.

He turned away, stalking toward the door without another word. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

“Scholar?” 

Wolfe stopped in the doorway. When he looked back over his shoulder, it was only as far as Jess’s slumbering form. “Yes?”

“Cap- er, Commander Santi said to tell you he’ll be on the third floor. He’s set up reasonably comfortable accommodations for all of us there. Only camp beds, but, well, they aren’t the worst we’ve made do with as of late.”

Wolfe let out a breath he’d had no good reason to hold. “Thank you.” There was nothing more to say, so he left the room, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Years of working in the Serapeum had made its halls familiar enough that it took little thought to navigate to the third floor. That left Wolfe more than enough of his remaining mental energy to berate himself. He’d seen men stabbed often enough in his years of field work. He’d done the stabbing more than once himself.

But never with so cruel a grin on his face.

_ A mask, and you know it, _ he snarled at himself. _ A terrified child lashing out in desperation, and the sight of it has you jumping at shadows. Pathetic. _

All his reasoning and self-loathing did little to make his memory cease its relentless efforts to show him visions of other blades, in other hands. It didn’t make his scars stop aching.

He supposed he should be grateful he’d been able to keep himself patched together even this long, with the chill of his most recent imprisonment still in his bones.

The third floor halls were narrow, lined with offices and conference rooms, not the showier ones used by the Curia and their more important guests, but the plainer workplaces of the many Scholars and librarians who did the dull and essential work of keeping the Library running from day to day. He’d been one of them, once, and he’d risen to the top of their ranks, only to be thrown down to depths he’d never have believed he could fall to. He had their respect again now, it seemed, but he knew now how fragile a thing it was.

Whoever worked here in more ordinary times, they’d been evicted from this narrow hall to establish a secure base for the Library’s new leadership. One of Nic’s favorite tricks, hiding the important targets in places too boring for assassins to prowl. Wolfe knew which hall he’d commandeered easily enough by the soldiers standing guard there. Nic would have an equally heavy guard in as many decoy halls as he could muster troops to staff, but his own hand-picked troops would be on duty where Nic most needed them.

Sure enough, once the sergeant at the end of the hall had waved Wolfe through, he rounded a corner to find Nic at the center of a small lobby, deep in conversation with his new second in command, Nofret Alamasi. A competent soldier, that one, and a substantial improvement over his previous one.

Zara Cole. An ally again in the end, if Thomas had the right of it. Wolfe couldn’t bring himself to be anything less than glad of her death, but he knew Nic would mourn her. He would need to tread carefully around that open wound.

An amusing thought, given that he could barely keep himself on his feet in that moment. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed in a way that he hoped looked casual, trying not to let on just how badly his arms and legs were shaking. One look at Nic’s face when Nic spotted him told Wolfe that he was fooling no one.

Nor was Nic hiding the bleakness beneath the worry in his eyes half as well as he probably thought he was.

Nic excused himself from his conversation with Alamasi and crossed the room to pull Wolfe into his arms. Too tired to concern himself with appearances, Wolfe sank into the embrace, resting his head against Nic’s shoulder.

The muscles of Nic’s shoulders vibrated with tension. His arms clung too tightly. His uniform reeked of ash and charred flesh. He hadn’t changed since the Archives.

The smell stirred memories. Too many, old and new alike. Burning flesh always smelled the same.

Wolfe willed those images from his mind, pushing back from Nic’s embrace to stand with his hands on his lover’s shoulders. “You haven’t slept,” he said, looking at the dark circles beneath Nic’s eyes and the growing stubble on his chin.

“Too much to do. You know that.” He considered Wolfe’s face and added, “You don’t look any better.”

Wolfe waved the concern off. “I’m fine. What are you working on now?”

Nic looked ready to argue that, but Wolfe’s glare was enough to make him think better of it. He sighed, and Wolfe could hear the exhaustion in it. For just an instant, he let it show on his face. “Securing the Serapeum. We have a solid base here, and operations out in the city are proceeding according to plan, but with all the traps and secret passages in this building…”

Now there was something he could help with. “Put me in charge of that. You can’t deny I know this Serapeum better than you. Go and rest, and when things are in order, I’ll wake you. I trust your second can handle ordering the troops about for a few hours.”

“Absolutely not.” Nic snapped, a note of panic creeping into his tone. He paused for a breath. He lowered his voice. “You look ready to collapse. You’re in no condition to oversee anything, let alone-”

Rage flared like a strike of lightning, and he snarled in reply, “Oh, and you are? You think I can’t see right through you? All I need is coffee, and-”

“No.” Nic’s voice was calm and quiet, but his hands formed such tight fists that his fingers paled. “No. You will not-”

“I will not?” Wolfe's tone had gone viciously bitter, contempt dripping from every word. “Oh yes, of course, _ Commander_. Decide my every move, lock me away for my own safety, wrap me in the padding of your fears until you’ve strangled the life out of me, why don’t you?”

The blow hit its mark. Nic turned on his heel and took a long stride toward Alamasi.

Wolfe should have let him go, but the anger was coiled too tightly around him now, its venom in his veins, and he spoke before he could think better of it. “Yes, of course, run to her the way you always ran to-” He got his mouth shut before the name could pass his lips, but it was too late. He’d already said too much.

Nic didn’t say a word. Didn’t even look back as he stalked across the room to where Alamasi stood with her Codex opened and her back turned, giving them the illusion of privacy if not the actuality.

Wolfe heard him ask her a question, something about the security they were putting into place, but Wolfe couldn’t make out the words over the roar of his pulse. The crushing weight of panic pressed in on his chest, and he leaned back against the wall, unsteady.

It wasn’t enough. His knees shook, and the room seemed to wobble before his eyes. He needed to sit down. There was a chair, not far away. Just a few steps. He could make it a few steps.

He was within reach of it when his knees buckled under him, and he had to grab the back of the chair to stay upright. Embarrassing.

Nic and Alamasi remained facing away, at least, sparing him from their laughter, or, worse, their pity.

Stifling a groan, Wolfe hunched against the chair, leaning his forearms across the back of it and dropping his head down to rest against his arms. He just had to catch his breath. Then he could get into a more dignified position.

One breath. Another. Deeper. It wasn't enough, but he made himself inch around to the side of the chair on the next breath. A slow slide of one hand, then the other, then his feet. Moving hurt, but he would have to endure it. He’d done this to himself. One more breath and he got himself seated.

There. Now he wouldn't look so broken in front of Nic's new second. He rested his head in his hands and concentrated on breathing through the crush of mindless panic and unwanted memories.

Voices rose on the other side of the room. Meaningless. Then footsteps, and Nic was in front of him, down on one knee, reaching for his hands. Wolfe let his partner take both of his hands, and he looked into Nic's eyes to see panic not unlike his own.

"Chris? All right?"

Before he could put together coherent words to respond, he heard Alamasi's voice from behind Nic. “Should I send for a Medica, sir?”

Wolfe managed to find his voice in time to answer. “No. Thank you… Senior Captain, but… that won’t be necessary.” He straightened his back, looked at her with what he hoped was a neutral enough expression. It would have been more convincing if he didn’t have to pause to catch his breath. “I am tired. Nothing more.”

“Well, Scholar Wolfe,” Alamasi said, shaking her head with a wry smile. “You certainly live up to your reputation.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Nic asked. He sounded calm enough, but he was tense. Too tense. Keeping hold of Wolfe's hands, he half rose toward her, as if blocking a threatened attack.

Wolfe let out an exhausted, shaky sigh. "Oh, Nic, look at me," he said, with as much sarcasm as he could muster. "I think it's obvious enough."

Behind Nic, Alamasi cleared her throat. “Sir. Permission to speak freely?”

“Go on,” Nic said.

“Thank you, sir.” She regarded both of them with cool assessment, pausing long enough for Wolfe to feel the weight of her judgment. Not a comfortable feeling; he preferred to be on the other end of such looks. “You are both so far past the point of exhaustion that it is impairing your judgment. Barring the most dire circumstances, I wouldn’t permit any soldier under my command to run himself into the ground like this. Would you, sir?”

“You know I wouldn’t,” Nic said, looking over his shoulder at her with an eyebrow raised. “Are you sending me to bed, Senior Captain?”

The thought amused Wolfe more than it should have, but it seemed an inopportune time to say so.

“I am advising you as your second in command, sir,” Alamasi said. She had a soldier’s talent for keeping a straight face, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “You had me take a shift to rest, and now I recommend you do the same. The immediate crisis is over, and we already have teams assigned to see to the defenses. Go to bed, sir, and take your Scholar with you.”

Nic didn’t answer right away, and for a long moment, Wolfe wasn’t entirely certain which was he would go. Then, he saluted Alamasi and said, “Very well, Senior Captain. I will take my rest. You are ranking officer until I return to duty.” He took out his Codex and wrote the orders, and when he put it away, he rose to his feet and held his arm out to Wolfe. “Join me, Scholar Wolfe?”

As if he could turn such an invitation down. Looking over his shoulder, he nodded his thanks to Alamasi as they walked away.

* * *

Wolfe didn’t need to wash his hands. He washed them anyway, plunging them beneath the warm water from the tap as soon as he got into the small bathroom Nic led him to. It helped with the chills and the shakes and relieved the ache in his bones.

“I am truly sorry,” he said at the sound of the door closing behind Nic. “For what I said about Zara. I know how much-”

“Stop.” Nic’s voice didn’t seem angry, but it was firm. Strict. An order. “I don’t want to talk about Zara. Not now. Leave it be.”

“Of course. I was needlessly cruel, and I apologize, and I will leave it at that.” After so many years together, he knew when to drop a subject of conversation, even if he didn’t always have the sense to do it.

He could see Nic in the mirror - could see himself, too, but chose not to - and he watched as Nic locked the door and took off his weapons, placing them carefully on the counter before reaching for the top button of his jacket.

Soldier that he was, Nic was never modest about stripping, especially not in front of his lover of over twenty years. So when Nic’s hands froze on the top button of his jacket, Wolfe’s stomach sank. The tremors that had almost settled returned, bad enough that the water running over his hands splashed onto the counter. Wolfe shut off the tap. Turned to his partner.

Nic smiled at him, his composure already regained, and reached for a washcloth from a stack on the counter. “We should get you cleaned up first. You look miserable.”

It was the sort of comment that usually irritated him, but the thunder of anger was only a distant rumble now. That storm had all but blown itself out. He was almost tired enough to welcome Nic’s fussing.

But not so tired as to miss how obviously Nic was hiding his own distress. “I sincerely doubt that I am any more miserable than you, my love,” he said, letting his face and his voice both soften. He reached out for the washcloth, his hand almost steady. “Perhaps it should be my turn to care for you, for once.”

“I’m fine,” Nic said, keeping his hold on the washcloth. With a hand on Wolfe’s shoulder, he leaned in to wipe the ash and dirt and gods only knew what else from Wolfe’s face.

There was a deep nostalgia to that gesture, and it was almost enough to lull Wolfe into complacency. So tempting to let Nic have his way in this. But that would mean letting Nic bury his pain yet again, and Wolfe couldn’t stand the thought of that.

No reason they couldn’t both care for one another at the same time. He reached for the buttons of Nic’s jacket, and saw his suspicions confirmed when Nic again froze. “Nic, love, I am not so fragile as to need you to conceal your troubles from me,” he said, releasing the jacket to take Nic’s hand, washcloth and all. “Tell me.”

He’d almost gotten the washcloth free when Nic’s fingers tightened around it. “No.” He pulled the washcloth back, and his other hand tightened on Wolfe’s shoulder. Almost painful. “I can’t. Not now. I can’t…” His voice hitched, and he shook his head. “I need to do something. Let me take care of you. At least I probably won’t fail at that.”

There they were. The cracks in the facade. The bleak devastation creeping into his voice. Wolfe knew that pain. It was the same look and tone he’d seen so many times since his return from Rome. Nic tried to hide it, but Wolfe knew. Even when he could barely find the strength to face his own wounds, let alone his partner’s, he knew.

He let his hands drop and tilted his face up, yielding to Nic’s ministrations. “You will never fail at that, love. Never. If not for your care, I would be long dead by now, and don’t you even try to deny it.”

Nic said nothing, but Wolfe could see the thoughts playing out across his face as he returned to the task of washing Wolfe’s face. The old guilt at giving up on his search for Wolfe, mingled with newer regrets and fears. Wrapping his fingers around the marble edge of the counter, Wolfe tried to relax into the soft touch of the washcloth, fighting the urge to argue his partner’s blamelessness for the choices he had been forced to make in that year. He had offered Nic his unnecessary forgiveness countless times already, but that couldn’t make Nic forgive himself. Wolfe understood that feeling well enough. 

The silence lasted until Nic had finished with Wolfe’s face and moved on to his hair, freeing it from its tie and running the rag over it in long, smooth strokes. Nowhere near as good as real washing, but good enough that Wolfe felt something work itself loose within him. Without really thinking about his words, he spoke. “It’s Morgan for me, of course. I wanted to save her most of all, at first. And I killed her.”

“You did nothing of the sort,” Nic replied without hesitation, the strokes of the washcloth growing heavier.

“Who was it that urged her on in Philadelphia, Nic? You weren’t so ill as to miss that much, I’m sure.” The image of Nic, wracked with pain and fever, flashed before his eyes, and he shuddered.

Nic pulled him into his arms. “You’d only have killed her all the faster if you hadn’t. And the rest of us with her. There was nothing you could have done.”

It might have been more reassuring to be held if not for Nic’s jacket, gritty against Wolfe’s freshly washed cheek and reeking of ash. Fighting another tremor, he pushed back, not as gently as he wanted to. “You’re getting me all dirty again,” he said with a laugh he didn’t really feel.

One look at Nic’s face and he regretted the attempt at levity. He touched the smear on his cheek. “Her ashes. Oh, Nic. Let me take that off of you.”

“Why? It’s a fitting enough badge of my shame, isn’t it?”

Wolfe cupped his partner’s face in both his hands, looking right into the devastation in his eyes as he said, “No, my love, it is not. If there was nothing I could have done, then neither was there anything you could have done. Grief is a heavy enough burden to bear without ladening yourself with more guilt than you deserve.”

“I should have seen it coming,” Nic said, the self-loathing in his voice as harsh and corrosive as acid. “I knew Nobel’s system was there. I could have spoken with Murasaki the day we opened those records and put people to work dismantling it. But it didn’t seem _ urgent _ enough.” His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I missed that, I missed the traitors in my own ranks…”

“Such omniscience would be a high demand of anyone short of your God, dear Nic.” Wolfe kissed him, softly, on the lips. “Let me take the jacket, love. You’ll feel better with it off.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to put it back on.”

Ah, there was the core of it. The same fear of inadequacy that had driven him to offer his resignation.

“You will. Because you know as well as I do that there is no one better to protect this Library and the people we care for.” When Wolfe reached for the buttons this time, Nic didn’t resist. He got the jacket off as quickly as he could and unpinned the Lord Commander’s insignia from it before tossing it into the crate in the corner filled with other soldiers’ soiled uniforms. “And if you can’t bring yourself to put this back on,” he said as he laid the insignia gently on the counter beside Nic’s weapons, “Trust that I will do it for you.”

When Wolfe turned back to him, Nic was already stripping off his undershirt. Once he was set on course, he could keep moving. “If there’s one thing I can trust, it’s that you’ll never stop hounding me,” he said, offering Wolfe a weak smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Let me get you out of that robe and we can clean each other up?”

Wolfe returned the smile. “Certainly.”

Years ago, when they were both younger, their bodies hungrier and their hearts less scarred, Wolfe would never have believed that he and Nic could be undressed in the same room without turning to carnal pleasures. Now, though, he felt no stirring in his loins, only deep affection and relief as they scrubbed the grime of war from one another’s bodies as best they could. 

He took the opportunity to reassure himself of Nic’s health, searching for wounds and inspecting old scars. The scar from his burn in Philadelphia still looked painful, and Wolfe kept his touch light on it, watching Nic closely for a reaction.

If it bothered Nic to have the new skin washed, he didn’t show it. Instead, he concentrated his attention on Wolfe’s bruised arm, frowning as he dabbed at the newly tender marks with his washcloth. “You told me the armor was overkill,” he said. “You called me paranoid.”

“I will concede that in this one instance, it may have been helpful, although I will posit that the reduction in flexibility may have been what allowed the thing to get its teeth on me in the first place.”

“Hmm.” Nic poked, very gently, at the bruises on Wolfe’s chest where the automaton’s paw had made impact. Would have gutted him if not for the armor. Between those and the bruises left by the guards’ rough treatment on his last day in prison, his torso was more bruise than not.

Prison. The thought sent a tremor through Wolfe, and Nic’s hands went to his shoulders in a steadying grip. Nic shot a questioning look at him. Wolfe shook his head. “A stray thought. Already kicked back into its hole.”

Nic’s eyes narrowed. Not an unkind expression, but a thoughtful one. Searching. “You’re still looking pale.”

Wolfe tried a smile and a light tone. “I haven’t had many opportunities for sunbathing as of late, I’m afraid.”

“Nor have I. Not shirtless, at any rate. Have we ever matched so well?” With an arm around his waist, Nic pulled him close, turning them both until Wolfe faced the mirror. 

Looking into the glass, Wolfe had to concede the point. He was usually noticeably darker than Nic, exposure to sunlight being equal, but now the color of their skin was nearly the same. The last time their color had been so similar was… Not a time he was going to think about. “A touch of anemia, perhaps,” he said. “I’ll admit I haven’t been eating well.”

“Hmm.” Nic looked at their reflection, still thoughtful. “You breathed a little of that poison, too.”

“I’m breathing well enough, aren’t I? Have you heard so much as a cough from me?”

Nic kissed his forehead. A lovely sight to see reflected in the mirror. “Just tell me you’ll see the Medica next time you go to check on Jess? Maybe see if Thomas can produce a dose of the antidote for you?”

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Wolfe said, “Very well. If it will put your mind at ease. But let’s sleep first, please. I want to be well rested before I put up with that level of prodding.”

Nic gave Wolfe one of his beautiful smiles. “Of course, love. Let me find us something to wear. Supplies are limited, so I’m sorry to say we’ll be sleeping in our clothes.” Putting his washcloth in the crate of laundry, he reached for a clean uniform from the pile next to it, checking the size before handing it to Wolfe. “No spare Scholars’ robes in stock. Sorry.”

"Unacceptable. I shall be forced to report you to the Archivist herself," Wolfe said as he took the uniform, giving Nic a look of mock scorn.

Nic waved his hands in front of him in a pleading gesture. "No, please. Do you know how hard it was to get her to go to sleep?"

Stepping into the uniform trousers, Wolfe laughed. "We've taught her bad habits, it seems."

“So start teaching her better ones. She’s going to need that,” Nic said, already pulling on a clean shirt. Soldiers dressed unreasonably fast as far as Wolfe was concerned.

“Once again, assigned to a job for which I am poorly qualified, with the fate of the Library falling upon my shoulders.” Wolfe tried for a bitter tone, but there was too much amusement in it, and he heard Nic’s muffled laugh. He got his own clothes on and picked up the Lord Commander’s insignia from the counter while Nic gathered his weapons. “Allow me to do the honors?”

Standing at attention, Nic nodded. Wolfe could feel just the slightest tremor in his partner as he pinned the golden symbols in place, letting his hands trail down Nic’s chest when he’d finished. He stepped back and offered his arm. “Escort me to our sleeping quarters, Lord Commander?”

Nic took it and turned them toward the door. “Certainly, Scholar Wolfe. Though I must warn you, the accommodations are primitive. If we are very fortunate, there may be a couch for us.”

Wolfe smiled. “That sounds downright luxurious, if I get to share it with you.”


End file.
